THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
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Chapter One: Things Untrue
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I looked outside my window to see the old wooden swing-set rocking
back and forth. The swing creaks louder as the wind begins to blow harder.
The dark clouds hide the suns welcoming rays. I have never felt so alone.
A large gust of wind shudders my blinds, sending a chill up my spine.
One lonely candle flickers in the far corner of my musty bedroom.
I feel something enter my room, a lost spirit, just like myself. I
clamp my eyes shut, hoping I am only feeling things untrue. The wind
caresses my face, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight as a
needle. I can still feel something in my room. Out of fear, I cower under
my thin summer sheet.
The wind whispers to me. My ears strain to hear what is being said to
me. I only hear the humming of soft winds. The roar of mighty winds
directly follows it.
I yearn for the family that has left me here. Their eyes colder than
ice as they tell me goodbye. Yet, I recall the warmth of their handshake.
The handshake I have come to miss; the handshake I wasn't even expecting to
receive.
The sun poked out of the clouds for only an instant before hiding
again. I know I am like that sun, curious and wondering, but only brave
enough to look for just a second. As I look outside I can tell the days are
getting shorter. Winter is soon approaching me. I don't like winter, yet I
dislike spending my summer as a slave for my family.
They say fourteen is too young. They would call, telling me to get an
education. After weeks I purposely broke the telephone, they did not both
me for a month. Yesterday, men in black suits came, knocking hard on my
wooden front door. I hid in the food storage room (which is noticeably
running low on food) as they searched the empty cabin. All but my bedroom
was empty. They left a note, lying on the table in my room.
GYPSY:
WE KNOW YOU ARE HERE. WE KNOW YOU ARE HIDDEN IN THE STORAGE
ROOM. WE COME FOR YOU IN A WEEK, PACK YOUR THINGS.
I'm scared. I do not want to leave. I don't want to see people.
People scare me; they are evil. They will make fun of my name as my family
did. Sometimes I wonder is my mother named me Gypsy just to make fun of me,
just to tell me that that is all that I will ever be able to be, a gypsy.
I want to cry now, but I still fear the spirit is in my room,
watching my every move. I was taught not to cry that I should not show my
emotions. I normally don't, only when I am alone do I show my emotions.
But, I am never alone, the spirits watch me, the birds watch me, and worst
of all, the men in suits watch me. Nobody can ever be truly, physically
alone, only mentally. I am alone mentally.